


Retinentia

by MDJensen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Gen, Gryffindor!d'Artagnan, Hogwarts AU, Hufflepuff!Porthos, Marauders era, Ravenclaw!Aramis, Ravenclaw!Athos, made-up spell for plot purposes, post—hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Retinentia</i>: to recollect; to hold on.</p><p>A Hogwarts AU that is much less about Hogwarts and much more about that time Athos' friends saved his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retinentia

The first thing he remembers is the platform. Thomas-- _Thomas_ \-- wishing him goodbye in unapologetically boisterous French; then, with a look from _Maman_ , slightly quieter English.

“Goodbye,” he says. Said. Says.

_Don't fight it, mate._

He remembers being Sorted. Remembers lining up with the other first years; some are terrified, have no idea what's coming. Some know exactly. Olivier knows, but does not have an opinion. There are no Houses at Beauxbatons the way there are here, so he has no family legacy to uphold. Any of the Houses seem perfectly acceptable. Olivier knows that he is thoughtful, and that he is shrewd; he certainly would like to be brave, and kind.

“I'm not kind,” he reminds himself.

_I'm not kind. I-- I_ killed _\--_

_Shh, Athos._

The Sorting Hat sees his thoughtfulness above all else. “Ravenclaw,” it says-- said-- and a table decked out in blue and bronze applauds politely.

He does not remember the next two years. They aren't unhappy years, but neither are they important.

The next thing he remembers is meeting René.

But this hasn't happened yet.

*

He has no idea how he's failed to notice it. It's right there-- right fucking there, on her fucking arm-- and maybe she's not been naked in front of him with the lights on in a while? It's got to be that?

Funny how the mind fixates on such things, Athos thinks.

His brother is dead.

And all he can think about is how he could have missed the Dark Mark on Anne's arm.

Maybe this is the only thing that his mind can latch onto, can form an anchor of, long enough to do what he has to do.

“I had to do it, Olivier,” Anne is moaning. “He found out about me.”

“Found out that that you're a-- you're a Death Eater?!”

“I know you'd leave me if he told you!”

Athos feels like laughing-- also screaming, possibly soiling himself. “And killing my little brother is such a brilliant way to stay on my good side!”

He is aware that he has Anne on the floor, has her between his feet and at his mercy.

He is aware of what he must do next.

“You don't have to do this!”

He is an Auror.

Aurors kill Dark wizards and witches; that's what they do.

Anne killed Thomas.

“I won't beg,” she says, suddenly calm.

Thomas is dead.

Thomas is dead.

And then-- so is Anne.

*

When Aramis finally finds him, his hair is soaked in sweat and his shirt is soaked in vomit and his trousers are soaked in piss. “ _Il est mort_ ,” he whimpers. “ _Il est mort_ ,”

“Shh, Athos,” Aramis murmurs. “I'm taking you home.”

“ _Mon frere est mort_ ,” Athos moans, “ _et ma femme_.”

He doesn't remember the next day. That's probably for the best. He doesn't remember Aramis cleaning him up or taking him home, although clearly he does both. He's not sure what comes next. Maybe he slept the whole time; maybe he cried the whole time. Maybe he did nothing.

*

Olivier meets the boy about a week into his third year, standing outside the common room entrance. From the look of things, he can't get the riddle right. Olivier doesn't think it's fair that they're the only House that has to solve their way into their own damn bedrooms; getting stuck outside is something that happens now and again, especially to first years, which this boy is clearly.

He's glaring at the door like it's personally offending him, like it's choosing not to let him in not because he can't get the answer but because he's a little slip of a lad who must carry half his weight in his mop of raven hair. He's _pissed._

Until Olivier comes to his side and smiles calmly, and suddenly all that anger gives way to tears. The boy scrambles to hide his face. But he can't stop the funny sob-hiccups that keep bubbling out of him, and Olivier, always a big brother, answers the riddle and ushers him to the third year dormitory and makes him a cup of tea.

His name is René, Olivier learns. It takes a while-- and the tea, and a handkerchief, and a fair bit of back-rubbing-- but he settles down eventually, enough to admit how much he misses his brother and sisters and enough for Olivier to figure out that he's _just_ turned eleven, and isn't almost twelve like Olivier himself was, which can make a difference sometimes.

There's something kind of charming about René. Despite the initial storm of homesickness and tears, once he is calm he's funny and eager and so damn proud to be at Hogwarts that Oliver can't help but smile. It's refreshing, hearing about the castle through the eyes of a first-year-- and a muggleborn, at that. Sadness forgotten, or at least carefully tucked away, René yammers on about his favorite professors and favorite paintings and how much he loves the astronomy tower.

Olivier sees him back to the first-year dormitory around ten. Though he lets René hug him _thank-you-and-goodnight_ , he doesn't really expect to see him again, at least no more than any other Ravenclaw who's not in his year.

But the next morning at breakfast, René sits beside him. And that night at dinner, he returns again, this time toting another first-year-looking boy with a Hufflepuff-yellow tie tied wrong. “This is Isaac,” René says simply. “I sat with him on the train.”

And this is the way he meets his best friends.

*

_Maybe this isn't a good idea. Maybe we should stop._

_Dumbledore says it's the best thing for it._

_He's_ shaking, _Porthos--_

_He'll be all right. He'll be all right soon--_

*

This. These. These five years.

These five years are where he would hang his hat, if such a thing were possible. These five years, he'd live again and again.

Cheering Isaac on during Quidditch matches. Poking René when he falls asleep in the library. Joining the dueling team together. Sticking their toes in the lake together.

Sneaking into each other's common rooms. Sneaking into the kitchens.

His friends are more excited than he is when he's appointed a Prefect, probably because they think it will allow for more sneaking.

It doesn't-- except when it does.

*

D'Artagnan visits. He says that he is sorry. He puts his head in his hands and weeps.

He is only eighteen.

He was Thomas' closest friend.

Athos does not speak to him. He is still weeping as Porthos enters the room, leads him out.

Athos closes his eyes.

*

Thomas joins them that year, Athos' fifth. The Hat puts him in Gryffindor before it can even touch down on his head.

“This is my stupid brother and his stupid friends,” Thomas says fondly at breakfast the next day, introducing them to the boy whose bed is next to his. “My brother's a Prefect, which is stupid. And they call each other these stupid names.”

“What names?” the boy, Charles, asks, with wide eyes.

“Athos,” Athos tells him.

“Porthos.”

“Aramis.”

“I want one,” Charles murmurs, reverently.

“Don't encourage them,” Thomas scolds. “They're stupid.”

“My last name is d'Artagnan,” Charles says, looking at Athos for approval.

Athos gives it freely.

*

“Do you know where you are?” Aramis says.

Athos does.

“Flat,” he says. Where Porthos and Aramis live. Where he would have lived too, if he hadn't--

*

Anne is a Slytherin. Porthos never takes to her, probably because of this, but Athos clucks and scolds him for close-mindedness. He did not grow up in Britain; he did not grow up with the prejudiced rhetoric of the Hogwarts Houses.

“I didn't either. I grew up with muggles.” Porthos points out to him, when he says this. “That's kinda the point.” But Anne never says a harsh word against Porthos, or Aramis, or any of the other muggleborns. They meet when he's in his sixth year and she's in her fifth; they're Prefects together.

Love is a silly word to use, Athos tells himself, sillier still to use at seventeen.

He uses it anyway.

*

Athos is nauseous with hunger.

The mere thought of eating makes his throat feel as though it might close.

“You need to eat something,” Porthos says.

“Wine,” Athos says.

Aramis and Porthos exchange a look. They say nothing.

Aramis leaves and returns with a bottle. Athos plucks it from him.

He drinks until he falls asleep.

*

Athos leaves them behind when he graduates; this is an eventuality he realizes fairly early on, but nothing could prepare him for it. Anne is a year behind him; Aramis and Porthos are two. Thomas and d'Artagnan are four.

He's Head Boy. His graduation speech goes over well. Coming down from the pulpit to thunderous applause, he's caught by Porthos first. His friend envelopes him in a tremendous bear hug that actually cracks Athos' back. “That was brilliant,” he laughs, “goddamn brilliant. Our Head Athos, all grown up 'n' givin' speeches--” He ruffles Athos' hair, still babbling excitedly, and--

And suddenly, Athos is crying.

He will just-- _fucking Christ_ , he will just miss Porthos _so much_. And Aramis, and d'Artagnan-- and Thomas, during the school year-- and Anne and Professor Flitwick and the tower and the Great Hall and Hogwarts itself. Just all of it. Everything. He's not ready to leave. One more year, please. One more _day_. He bites his lip and tries not to whimper as his tears soak into Porthos' robes.

But Porthos is smart enough to realize what's going on, and Porthos is kind enough to play it off, so he keeps Athos against his chest and loudly refuses to release him-- “he's mine, damn it, d'Artagnan, you'll get your fuckin' turn”-- until Athos brings himself under control.

*

Apparently it's already tomorrow.

“You puked all over yourself,” Aramis says. “I cleaned you up.”

Athos says nothing.

*

_Do you know what we're doing, Athos?_

*

Athos goes to university. “Your father always wanted you to,” _Maman_ says, knowing that this will convince him if nothing else will. But Athos doesn't take convincing. Despite being a rather old and rather pure wizarding family, the de la Fere's have, as a rule, embraced muggle-style education.

His friends don't give him much of a chance to miss them. Porthos and Anne write him diligently, at least once a week. Aramis, d'Artagnan and Thomas write fairly often as well, although they're just as likely to send him postcards or Howlers that shout _HOW THE FUCK'S IT HANGING, MATE?_ and make him eternally glad that his family's wealth has paid for a private flat.

*

Thomas' funeral is six days after his death.

Porthos and Aramis have arranged a portkey. It is a silver candlestick. Porthos puts his hand atop Athos' as they take hold of it.

The funeral is a simple affair. Thomas is buried in his best cloak and his Gryffindor scarf. _Maman_ weeps. Athos doesn't.

*

The letter comes sometime around Christmas, asking him to be in front of his fireplace at midnight. When Aramis' face appears it is pale and taught through the flames.

“I fucked up,” he mumbles, and then Porthos appears next to him, arm around his shoulder. “Isabelle's pregnant.”

It's almost painful, how badly Athos wishes that he could be there to hug him.

*

Athos is drunk again.

He's sitting in a chair by the bed when the door opens.

He's puking before he knows it's going to happen. Just sort of opens his mouth to tell them to leave and instead of words what comes out is a hot gush of sour liquid. Aramis rushes to tip him forward, help him aim for the floor instead of his own lap, and Porthos puts a hand on his shoulder. When it's over, Aramis murmurs a few spells and the puke disappears. Porthos locates a wastebasket and places it wordlessly in front of him.

He doesn't think he's vomited in front of anyone that he can remember, Athos muses. Perhaps his mother, as a very small child, but nobody since. He stomach is not prone to upset and he himself is not-- was not-- has never been prone to overindulgence. Or overreaction.

This is the third time in less than a week that Aramis has had to clean him of his own sick. The second time that it has been due to intoxication.

He doesn't know which is more shameful-- this, or the first time, when it had been caused purely by trauma.

By sorrow.

By guilt.

By--

“Hey,” Porthos says, and then he's holding the wastebasket up under Athos' chin just in time for him to begin retching again.

“You did what you had to do,” Aramis says.

That's when Athos loses his mind.

*

The call comes in February. Dumbledore answers his unasked question immediately. “Thomas is fine, Mister de la Fere. But I think that Mister d'Herblay could greatly benefit from your company at the moment. For the next five minutes, Apparation will be possible within the confines of my office.”

Athos packs quickly.

Aramis is slumped in the seat in front of the grand desk; his expression is blank but his hands are trembling on the armrests. Porthos is standing beside him.

“Mister de la Fere,” Dumbledore says mildly. “Thank you for coming.”

“What's going on?” Athos asks; his heart's a little wobbly in his chest and he's not sure who he's asking.

“Miss St. Helene has lost her baby.”

Aramis' mouth pulls down painfully at the words, and before anyone can say anything else Athos is kneeling before his friend and pulling him against his chest in the tightest embrace he can muster.

“I'm sorry,” Aramis breathes. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--”

“You don't have anything to be sorry for,” Athos murmurs, but Aramis shakes his head and pushes away.

“Isabelle-- she's gone through so much because of me--”

“Aramis, the miscarriage wasn't your fault--”

“She shouldn't have been pregnant to begin with!” Aramis shrieks, then deflates once more. Athos cups a hand against his jaw and watches as he bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Sir?” Athos asks. “Where is Isabelle now?”

“She's returned to her family for a few days. But Mister d'Herblay insists he'll be more comfortable here. Why don't the two of you see him to bed?”

He'd forgotten how much he loves the castle, Athos thinks idly as he and Porthos guide Aramis through the corridors; Hogwarts seems to know Aramis' pain. Every staircase cooperates. The Ravenclaw door lets them in without a riddle and without mention of how only one of them actually has the right to enter. When they pile into the bed together, it is plenty big enough.

And when they wake in the morning, Aramis tucked up small against Athos' chest, they're all under the blankets although they surely fell asleep on top of them.

*

“ _Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out!_ ” The knives in his throat tell Athos that he is screaming but to his ears it is nothing but a whimper. “ _Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out!_ ”

Porthos is holding him bodily back; he knows this. Tears are pouring helplessly down his face; he knows this. Aramis is crying too, gaping back at him like a misbegotten child.

Athos knows this.

And yet all Athos really knows is the red, and the black, and the sharpness, and the fury, until suddenly everything is dull and cottony around the edges and then--

*

In the morning, Aramis and Porthos go to their classes, and Athos takes time to reacquaint himself with the grounds. He's shivering by the lake-- but not minding, honestly-- when Porthos sprints, panting, up to him. “Aramis never came to Potions,” he gasps.

It's dark when they finally find him. Aramis hides well, when he wants to. He's up in the Astronomy tower, still his favorite place, and there's an empty bottle of firewhiskey at his side.

He doesn't speak. Athos summons some blankets and wraps him up tightly, and Porthos rubs life back into his fingertips.

It's clear that Aramis isn't moving. They hunker down in a pile, and fall asleep.

*

Athos wakes in bed. His mouth tastes foul; he has vomited again.

His eyes are swollen nearly shut. He remembers weeping, vaguely. He feels no comfort from it, no release.

“You really upset him,” Porthos says. “He was only tryin' to help, you know.”

Athos says nothing.

“You need to apologize,” Porthos says.

Athos says nothing.

*

Aramis pokes him awake.

Athos is groggy, and more than a little cold, but Aramis' eyes are crinkled with misery and his lip is wobbling so all of that takes a back seat. “Hey,” Athos croaks.

“I have to throw up,” Aramis whimpers. These words banish the rest of the fog from Athos' mind, and he casts his eyes about for a wastebasket. There's one just inside the balcony, and he summons it hurriedly.

Aramis grabs it on the second try and fits it in between his knees; he drops his head down, nearly below the rim. There's a tremendous, watery belch. For a second, Athos thinks that's all that will happen; then Aramis pukes loudly into the basket.

Athos crawls to his side. Aramis is swaying, still drunker than not, and Athos offers his shoulder for the boy to brace himself against. How Porthos is sleeping through the racket, he has no idea. But Aramis needs-- _visibly_ \-- not to be alone right now, and so Athos ignores the sounds and the smell and presses up against Aramis until Aramis slouches against him, still spitting up a bit, leans on him and keeps the basket underneath his mouth even while his head is on Athos' shoulder.

“I feel awful,” Aramis moans, when there's a long enough pause.

Athos smooths Aramis' hair back, and sighs. “You finished the bottle,” he remarks mildly. He's trying not to sound judgmental, but apparently it's still the wrong thing to say because thinking about it causes Aramis to flinch and sit up and start puking again.

“Shh,” Athos soothes, rubbing his side. “You'll feel better soon, Aramis. I promise.”

Aramis stops eventually, and sags once more against Athos; Athos lifts his wand and swiftly cleans Aramis' mouth and shirt. Clouds drift over the moon. Aramis shivers, and Athos clutches him protectively.

After a little while there's a sound: not a retch, but a sob. Athos glances down to see tears dripping off Aramis' chin, splashing into the foul pool of the wastebasket.

Aramis feels the gaze on him. He sniffs and wipes his face, then pushes the basket away and crawls fully in Athos' lap-- arms around his shoulders, ass between his thighs, face against his neck.

And then Aramis just starts _bawling_. Crying so hard that he's forgetting to breathe, and all Athos can think of is the homesick little boy from five years ago who couldn't get into the Ravenclaw tower. Who let Athos make him a cup of tea. Whose heart was aching but far from broken, though now it is perfectly, painfully clear that everything inside of Aramis is _shattered_.

Porthos is finally awake. Athos doesn't notice until he's right beside them, but suddenly Porthos' warmth is pressing against Athos' side and his hand is cradling the back of Aramis' head. “We've got ya,” Porthos grunts. Suddenly he seems much older than sixteen. Seems older than nineteen, too, in fact, and Athos finds himself more than willing to give the situation over to him, to no longer be the one holding everything together. He's scared. Nineteen and scared because he should know what to say or do but he _doesn't_.

Then he feels Porthos' other hand work its way into his hair, and Porthos smiles, holding tight to both of them.

*

_Do you know what we're doing, Athos?_

_No._

*

Athos has friends at university, friends who call him Olivier and don't know that he keeps a wand in his knapsack. He's getting a degree in economics, but taking plenty of history and literature classes to boot.

He's not unhappy. But he's not at home.

In the strangest and most inappropriate of ways, he is a little excited when one of the heads of the Ministry of Defense contacts him directly.

“Dumbledore tells me you're at muggle school,” Treville sniffs, a bit reserved.

“Yessir,” Athos replies. “Just four years.”

“Four years?” Treville scoffs. “Head Boy. Nine NEWTS. Captain of the dueling team. The Wizarding World needs you, Olivier. It needs you to stop playing muggle and come protect it.”

“As an Auror?”

“What else?” Treville looks tired. “You-Know-Who's gaining followers faster than we can track them, let alone put them away. We need wizards like you fighting the fight.”

So he quits university, tells Anne of his decision on her graduation day.

Then, acting by some instinctive nature that he typically ignores, he asks her to marry him too, for good measure.

*

Aramis, as ever, is as quick to forgive as he is to anger. This is fortunate, because Athos' apology is little more than a grunt and a few half-hearted gestures.

But it's enough for Aramis to climb into bed beside Athos and pull him into his arms.

“I just--” he says. He's weeping a little. “I just need you to know that-- you're not alone, Athos. God, that's ridiculously cliché, right? But it's true. I know that everything's arse-over-elbow right now in the worst fucking way-- Christ, that doesn't even cover it, I mean-- but Porthos and I are here. We're here. And we're trying-- we're trying to do what's right.”

*

Porthos isn't happy about it, but stands up with him anyway. Thomas, Aramis, and d'Artagnan are overjoyed. It's a simple and slightly sloppy ceremony-- despite his family's money Athos really has no idea how to go about such things-- it's beautiful all the same. They marry in summer, before Hogwarts goes back into session. The de la Fere gardens are decked out in gauzy white drapery, the accents Ravenclaw blue and Slytherin green, and Anne is a picture of loveliness and youth.

They live in London. This year is so different from the last-- so, so much better-- and Athos feels slightly ashamed of the past twelve months, of spending it away from his proper place. But it hardly matters now. He is with Anne, he is in Auror training, and he is working on convincing Porthos and Aramis to join him when they graduate in June. It's going well. It's going so damn well.

*

_Do you know what we're doing, Athos?_

_No._

_Have you heard of_ Retinentia _?_

*

He convinces them, of course. Aramis and Porthos were both keen to become Aurors already, and Athos refuses to do them the discredit of wondering whether or not they are just following in his footsteps. They are both, and have always both been, their own men.

Only when Thomas and d'Artagnan, in their sixth year, both sign up for the classes they'll need to qualify-- only then does Athos begin to feel a twinge of regret at what he's started.

Being an Auror is more dangerous with every passing day. In his first year, Athos only trained. Aramis and Porthos are sent into the field after only a few months; there simply isn't time to wait. The three of them make a natural team. But Athos finds himself distracted almost constantly by the knowledge that  _ he _ got them into this, that if anything goes wrong it will be  _his_ fault.

Jesus, they're  _eighteen_ .

The first few months in the field pass without incident. But sooner or later Porthos takes a nasty curse to the eye-- his sight is spared, thankfully; his smooth skin is not-- and it's around that time that the reality settles in for all of them.

Not long after, Aramis is left for dead on a mission that Athos and Porthos were not assigned to. They find him the next day, alive and abjectly traumatized.

It's the first time Athos can remember seeing Porthos cry.

Anne, at least, is safe. Safely puttering away at some entry-level ministerial position. When Athos comes home he kisses her twice as hard now, twice as long, grateful beyond words for her stability and support.

*

“ _Retinentia_ ,” Aramis says. “Don't tell me you've forgotten your Latin spell roots.”

“ _Retinentia_. 'Hold on',” Athos says, and both of them nod.

“Recollect. Retain. Hold on.”

“Do you know what it does?” Porthos asks.

*

The world is ending. That's how it feels, anyway. Athos tries hard not to show his anxiety, not to advertise how badly he sleeps and how little he eats, but everyone's in the same boat anyway.

Porthos tells him, in slightly discomposed whispers, that he and Aramis have taken to sleeping in the same bed more nights than not. “And it's not just because of his nightmares. I mean, that's how it started, but-- now it's more because-- Jesus. You let someone outta your sight for an hour and you don't know if you're gonna see 'em again.”

Athos is twenty-three. Anne is twenty-one. Aramis and Porthos are twenty.

Thomas and d'Artagnan are eighteen. Everyone has begged them-- family, friends, professors--  _everyone_ \-- has begged them not to become Aurors. To get the fuck out of Britain, out of Europe. Take a pocketful of the de la Fere fortune and go off to university in North America or Australia. 

They refuse.

 _Gryffindors_.

*

“It's been almost two weeks, Athos,” Aramis says. “Fuck, we're not asking you to be okay-- Christ, we're not. You just-- you haven't left this flat. Not once. You haven't showered. I think you've been drunk more than you've been sober. We just need--”

“We just need you to come back to us,” Porthos says. “We just need you to remember yourself.”

_Remember yourself._

He'd rather forget.

*

Athos knows James and Lily, has known them since before they were Aurors together. James succeeded him as Head Boy. Athos remembers passing along the ancient badge to him, on the day he himself graduated Hogwarts.

He knows them. Christ, he's met Harry; he has met the Chosen One on an occasion upon which the Chosen One needed his nappy changed badly.

So while the rest of the Wizarding World floods the streets and laughs and cheers, Athos grits his teeth and goes to work.

The world does not feel safe just yet.

*

“We tried to ask your permission,” Aramis says. “But you-- you haven't spoken in a few days. Did you realize that? You babbled a little when the spell began, but in the past three or four days-- anyway, we called Dumbledore. He said we should go ahead.”

“ _Retinentia_ ,” Athos says.

“Yeah. You've been under it for a few hours now. You've probably been-- remembering stuff? How are you feeling?”

“ _Thomas me manque_ ,” Athos says. He closes his eyes.

*

The world does not feel safe just yet, because it isn't safe just yet. There are still dozens if not hundreds of Death Eaters and lower-level devotees unaccounted for. Retaliations occur daily; fires set, Dark Marks cast. But mostly everyone they take in denies it, cries  _Imperius_ . It's impossible to say whether or not they are lying. In fact, it seems genuinely possible that the entire British wizarding world has been out of their minds for years.

Everyone else is cheerful. They joke and celebrate, overjoyed that their little group has made it through alive. Athos, Aramis, Porthos, Thomas, d'Artagnan. Not a casualty among them.

Not--

*

“ _Thomas me manque_ ,” Athos says. He remembers the Platform again, remembers Thomas wishing him goodbye.

“ _English_ ,” _Maman_ had scolded him; “ _English_ ,” Aramis says now, though his face says he understands the words perfectly.

He remembers Thomas crying when the letter came. “You'll get yours in a few years,” Olivier said; “but I'll miss you,” Thomas wailed.

He remembers Thomas on his little toy broomstick, remembers Thomas learning to write his name.

He remembers the day that Thomas was born, holding him, terrified, under the watchful eyes of the healers and  _Maman_ and  _Papa_ \--

*

Papa has a thick mustache, kind eyes. “We're moving to England,” he says. “You'll love it there, Olivier.”

“You're coming too?”

“Of course, _cher_. I wouldn't leave you!”

*

“ _Papa_ ,” Athos says. “ _Je veux mon papa_.”

“Athos,” Porthos says. They're on either side of him, in the bed with him. “Your father died a long time ago. He died before you even started Hogwarts.”

“ _Tu mens. Je ne me souviens pas_.”

“Athos,” Aramis says. “You need to speak English. We don't speak French, remember?”

His father died. His father dies when he is nine.

They go back to France for the funeral.

“This isn't showing me happy memories,” Athos says. Aramis pulls his sleeve down over his hand and dries Athos' cheeks with the cuff.

“Ain't supposed to,” Porthos says. “Shows you _important_ memories. We ain't askin' you to be happy right now, mate. That's askin' too much. All we want is for you to come back to us.”

*

He remembers the Yule Ball. Remembers Aramis introducing him to Isabelle.

He remembers turning the desks inside out with a misplaced spell. Remembers Flitwick laughing, instead of yelling.

He remembers brewing Amortentia for the first time. Remembers the slight chagrin he feels when it doesn't smell like Anne's perfume but like the clear night air of the astronomy tower, the warm earthy comfort of the Hufflepuff common room.

He remembers the first Quidditch match of his sixth year, the one where Porthos took a Bludger to the head and spent three nights in the hospital wing. Remembers tears and snot dripping freely down Aramis' face as Athos rubbed his back side to side, side to side, and fought back the urge to cry right along with him.

*

“How old are you?” Porthos asks. He's rubbing his back.

“ _Quatre_ ,” Athos whispers.

“Four!” Porthos replies. “That's exciting, mate! Can you tell me your name?”

“Athos,” Athos tells him.

“Your parents named you Athos?”

“I named me Athos.” Athos is crying but he doesn't know why. His nose is running, too. “They named my brother. His name is Thomas and he's a baby.”

“We need to stop,” Aramis says. “Dumbledore told us to stop if he starts mixing up his sense of time.”

“One more,” Porthos says, and then he looks at Athos again. “Athos, I need you to think of something very important for me.”

“Like what?”

“Anything you want. But it has to be _important_ , do you understand?”

Athos isn't crying anymore. He nods.

Then he remembers two things.

*

First is the missing day. The day after Thomas' and Anne's deaths, the day he never expected to remember. He remembers screaming; he remembers weeping. He remembers holding his breath for a minute at a time. He remembers clawing at his skin and making himself bleed but--

More importantly, he remembers that he was not left alone for a single moment.

*

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh my God, I'm so-- I'm so-- she killed him. She killed Thomas. She was a Death Eater. Anne was a Death Eater! And I didn't know-- I didn't know-- she killed Thomas. Porthos, she killed Thomas! My-- my baby brother-- _mon petit fr_ _è_ _re. Et Dieu, Dieu, je l'aime encore. Dieu aide-moi, je l'aime encore_! And I fucking _killed her_!”

*

And then he remembers this:

“Some wizards take other names. Like, they give themselves a name.” René is taking up most of Olivier's bed; Olivier himself is scrunched up in a spare corner.

Isaac is cross-legged on the windowsill. He loves the Hufflepuff dormitories, he swears, loves their proximity to the kitchens and how they're always warm and full of blooming plants-- but there's something to be said for _towers_. Whenever they're in Olivier's dorm, or René's, he always makes time to stare out the windows.

“Are you listening?” René prompts. He and Isaac are in their second year and are still both twelve; Olivier is in his fourth and has just turned fifteen. Isaac never seems young to him, though sometimes René does.

This is one of those times. “They want to be-- I don't know, remembered, I guess- and they pick a name for themselves and that's what they go by!”

“Like Grindewald?” Isaac asks, raising his eyebrows.

“You're daft. It's not just dark wizards.”

“What's wrong with your name?” Olivier poses, reasonably. “It's a French name, you know. At least, it can be.”

René pulls a face.

“We could go by our last names, if you want,” Isaac suggests, and René shakes his head.

“D'Herblay? Duuurrrblay?”

“Then what?”

“I want to be Aramis. It's a family name, or something. I've heard my mum say it before. _Aramis._ Yeah?”

“Sounds a bit grand for a scrawny blighter like you.”

“Come _on_ ,” René pouts. “Pick one.”

“You're talkin' about us renamin' ourselves because we're so bloody cool, and you give me ten bloody seconds to think of mine?” Isaac crosses his arms. “This is my _name_ we're talkin' about.”

“So you will pick one?”

Isaac huffs. “Porthos,” he says, after a minute. “It's a place or somethin'. Dunno. Kind of matches yours.”

“You'll never get anyone to call you these names,” Olivier drawls. This earns him a kick to the shin.

“We'll call each other them,” René replies eagerly. “We don't need anyone else.” Grinning down from the windowsill, Isaac has been converted; Olivier can see this. He has lost.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “Eh-- I've no idea what I want mine to be.”

“Just make it match ours!” René suggests, brightly.

“Right. What's halfway between Aramis and Porthos, then? Arathos? Porthamis?”

“Pormis?” René suggests, giggling.

Olivier frowns. “This is ridiculous.”

“Athos?”

The suggestion comes from Isaac-- from Porthos.

Olivier loves it at once.

“Athos?” René-- Aramis-- repeats.

They look at him, expectantly.

“I suppose,” Athos replies, not bothering to hide his grin.

*

The next morning, Athos gets out of bed. He showers. He eats breakfast.

This is not a happy ending.

But it's a start.

**Author's Note:**

> I do understand that 'Athos' is not canonically a portmanteau of 'Aramis' and 'Porthos'. But they're not canonically 20th century wizards, either. Besides, wouldn't it be adorable if it were?
> 
> Please do not hesitate to correct any translation errors!
> 
>  
> 
> _Maman_ : Mom
> 
> _Il est mort_ : He is dead.
> 
> _Mon frere est mort, et ma femme._ : My brother is dead, and my wife.  
>    
>  _Thomas me manque._ : I miss Thomas.
> 
> _Cher_ : dear
> 
> _Papa, je veux mon papa._ : Dad, I want my dad.
> 
> _Tu mens. Je ne me souviens pas._ : You're lying. I don't remember that. 
> 
> _Quatre_ : four
> 
> _mon petit frère_ : my little brother
> 
> _Et Dieu, Dieu, je l'aime encore. Dieu aide-moi, je l'aime encore!_ : And God, God, I still love her. God help me, I still love her!


End file.
